The music our collisions make
by spinlight
Summary: The betrayal against logic and his mental health is a malicious one. Sam/Freddie twoshot.
1. In a market dimly lit

**Disclaimer: **When I own it, I'll let you know.

**A/N: **I'm working on chapter three for Holiday Spirit but I was reading some fanfics last night and I really wanted to just try out this style. Growth in leaving my comfort zone, ya know? It's short, it's overly angst filled but that's what I was going for and Vix says that's alright. The title is taken from a mewithoutyou song.

Thanks to Vix and anyone who stumbles on this.

**The music our collisions make.**

--**  
**

He watches her silently with equal parts anxiousness, reverence and contempt. She evokes so many more emotions than that, too many to list in fact. Too many that exist for a breath and then dissipate in the expel.

She's inspiration, violent and alive.

She's anesthesia, making his blood slow and his chest numb.

It's two in the morning and he's the only thing conscious. The living room is filtered with static noise from the television and he's just sitting there in the chair off to the side, studying her as she sleeps soundly against Carly.

A defeated sigh and chuckle devoid of mirth are mixed for convenience and then swallowed in one non-existent choke.

He's always fucking watching her.

--

The betrayal against logic and his mental health is a malicious one.

His heart is a traitor!

His brain screams out that it must hang for it's treachery but he calms down the organ's bloodlust, sadly telling it that he has a sneaking suspicion they won't have to worry about things for much longer.

She'll take care of the hard work for them with an easy grin.

--

Clock hits two thirty and he sluggishly gets to his feet, weighed down by emotions he isn't really old enough to be plagued with yet nowadays, he was so much older than he use to be.

He pulls out a glass and stops in front of the kitchen sink, letting the water run and shift to a certain temperature before putting the glass under the stream.

It fills to about half full.

It fills to about half empty.

--

He's trying to figure out why he agreed to this because right now, nothing makes sense. This isn't the relief or release promised to him. This isn't fun.

In reality, there is no need for contemplation. He knows why, really.

It was her words, her touch; her warm breath tickling his ear and trailing heat down his neck, convincing him that a _friend's with benefits _type deal could work so beautifully for them. It was a lie, he saw no beauty, only hints of an appending storm but he nodded wordlessly and accepted her offer.

Because he's weak.

And even though she's not the cure, she's could be the placebo.

--

Lost in his thoughts, he's surprised when she comes up behind and sinks herself right into his body, arms wrapping around his waist.

He stiffens at the contact and he could feel the vibrations of her words against him.

"Relax, Benson."

According to her, it was that simple. He just had to relax.

He felt like screaming at her but he couldn't, he knew the conditions and terms coming into this. So instead, he shifts; turns around so that they were facing one and other. His hands find her hips and the curves burn reminders into the tips of his fingers.

She did not belong to him, she belonged to no one.

Their time was fleeting.

When she takes her head off his chest and looks up at him with those bright blue eyes, he swears he see's something more. Something more than lust and a need for an easy means to get her fix.

He could swear until his lungs emptied of breath.

He was wrong.

And he shouldn't blame her, this is just how she works. He knows that, he knows her better than any other person in this shitty town and on this dying planet, Carly included. This was all she was willing to give and he had to take it or stew in the pain of withdraw.

He did blame her, even though he shouldn't.

She knew he'd agree, she knew what it would do to him.

--

In the dark of the kitchen, their lips meet in a fiery car crash of desperate need for physical contact and desperate need for emotional contact. You can pair off what need belonged to which soul.

This couldn't go on forever, he wouldn't make it through forever.

There was nothing to worry about though, she'd end it soon enough.

His heart would hang soon enough.


	2. In a sweater poorly knit

**Disclaimer:** Something witty, okay. Oh and something about me not owning iCarly. But mostly something witty.

**A/N: **Funny that I continue on in one of my least reviewed stories but the style is a welcomed break from my normal ventures and 'Not Your Demographic' desired resolution and so did I kind of. Though it's not really a resolution, but there is acceptance! Chapter title and first line is borrowed from Mewithoutyou, A sweater poorly knit.

Thanks to Vix for the beta.

**The music our collisions make.**

--

He does not exist, only she exists.

Happiness is lamence terms, misery is poetic.

Until this point; until things went so far off course did he finally understand insightfulness is a curse when the realization hits you that another human being has become more vital to you than the oxygen filling your lungs. He still can't tell if it's her making his chest swell and reside or if it's just the air.

Either answer is devastating for their own special reason.

--

He pulls away slow and painful, like a dragging handclap provoking from her a dying sound wrapped in a heavy breath; a growl of protest that heats his bottom lip, which is caught between her teeth.

She releases him, looks up at him and presses harshly against him in one movement.

Eyes held need and want and heat.

She's like a candle standing there in the dark. Burning and burning, dripping her hot wax essence on top his skin and making sure it melts and blends until there is never a chance he'll be able to wash her off.

"What?"

He's blinking hard to keep focus, her hands sneaking up and resting in the hollow between his shoulder blades.

"We can't do this anymore."

She laughs and it's warm, thick and heartrending.

It dies out to a confused whisper of his name when he untangles himself and walks right out the door.

--

It's been a week and the withdraw almost brings him to his knees.

He knew he was addicted, it's clear now he's an addict. He misses her so much that he breaks in two every three to five minutes with the vision of her body swaying towards him with treacherous intention. If he could just reach out and touch, feel those coaxing curves one more time then it might be enough and not nearly enough to exist for the next moment.

In one intense breath, he exhales (purges) the desire trapping him in this state of longing and in one intense second, he thinks maybe he can recover from her.

The indulgence is brief, falling and failing; gone.

He goes back to burning.

--

They just got done filming iCarly and the tension in the room is so suffocating that they should all be dead in a matter of moments.

But they don't die and he just wants to die every time she looks over at him with a hardened glare and those lips strained in a thin line. She's pissed at him because the universe doesn't feel like there is enough unfairness filtered through irony floating around the world.

He swallows the bile coating everything and continues to ignore her which in turn causes her to glare even more.

Good, he thinks.

Let her experience the stabbing feeling that has been ripping at his gut for months now, he hopes.

--

Chest tightens, tears well and he lays sheltered under the bed sheets.

He's bitter to the point of plotting her death, that's how messed up she's got him. He has everything planned right up to her painted white skin; like porcelain to match the all black burial dress.

Disgustingly, he misses her.

Hopelessly, he dreams of her.

--

She corners him on the fire escape and in equal parts, he fears for his life and feels shame for the rush of desire and adrenaline through his blood.

"We're done playing this little game."

Cue the marker for violent kiss.

Pan the camera for arms flailing before his back is brutally shoved into the brick of the wall while she tries to murder him with her lips, those lips.

Breathing becomes an issue. A slight one.

Minute later, it becomes a large one. They pull apart and it's all ragged inhale and exhale. It's all nails digging into forearms and bodies flush against one and other.

"I- I'm not going to back down. I don't want to do this deal anymore." He paused, forcing courage into his chest and the words out his throat. "I want something more than this."

She stares at him, it's unnerving and never ending.

"So call it what you want."

And her lips are back on his, and then his jaw line, trailing down to his neck. His thoughts get off track, he's dazed by the want buzzing through his bones. This blissful bewilderment doesn't last long though. He yelps in more of surprise than pain when she bites down on his collarbone and whispers heavily into his skin.

"But it is what it is."

When she moves back up to reclaim his lips for the third time, he's not sure who just won. If this was her admitting and agreeing to a relationship masked in her usual careless way or just more of the same they've been molding for the last two months.

In the end, he decides it's him who has won because he's tried walking away from her but all roads just seem to lead right back into her.

It saves time and sore feet to stand in place while she wraps all around him and just listen to the music their collisions make.


End file.
